


Jack Zimmermann Shakes His Booty

by Survivah



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 03:12:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Survivah/pseuds/Survivah
Summary: “Zumba is a dance fitness regimen incorporating hip-hop, samba, salsa, merengue, and mambo. It’s a really popular form of aerobic exercise man,” Shitty said as he stretched out his hamstrings.Jack looked dubiously at the flyer, folded from a week’s worth of confused examination. “Is that what ‘get fit to the beat’ means?”(One guess who the cute zumba instructor is)





	

**Author's Note:**

> yes hello i know nothing about hockey

Pre-season training didn’t have the excitement of proper hockey season, but Jack almost liked it better because of it. The repetitiveness of the drills reminded him of the calming exercises he used to do in therapy, and the team was always more relaxed with each other when there wasn’t the pressure of an approaching game. Not to mention he could actually stay put in Providence for a little while. Maybe this season he would finally get around to putting something up on the bare walls of his condo. 

Jack shifted on the hard plastic of the meeting room bench. He remembered his initial surprise at finding that even in the NHL, the team meeting room was filled with rows of uncomfortable benches. He hadn’t realized that he’d been expecting overstuffed armchairs, or perhaps a long conference room table with ergonomic, cushioned, rolling office chairs, until he walked into the meeting room and found the same hard plastic benches that had been in every team meeting room he’d stepped into since he was three. 

It had been such a relief. 

Taking a sip of his post-practice “Re-Energize! Tropical Lightning Thunder!” flavored Gatorade, Jack listened for the sound of the rest of the team coming down the hall. Jack was always the first done with his shower and ready in the meeting room, partially because he was entitled to the first go at the showers as team captain, and partially because he’d never felt the need to linger in the shower. Get clean, get out.

The squeals of a set of new sneakers on linoleum sounded from down the hall, followed shortly by a slightly out of breath Chowder.

“Oh! Uh, hi Jack. I’m not–early, right? I don’t wanna– do you like to take time to, uh, strategize before we have the uh– the post-practice, um, the after-practice meeting? Because I can like, go and probably, like-“

Jack wished Chowder would stop talking for a moment so that Jack could reassure him that he was fine. Chowder was filled with rookie nerves, and Jack had sympathy for rookie nerves.

“But then, like, we’re supposed to be here at six, right? It’s six, unless the clock on my phone is wrong, and you know, it could be. Apple, right? Crazy… Um, so anyway I timed my shower so that I wouldn’t be late, and I’m pretty sure I’m not late, but is this like parties where when you say six you don’t really mean be there exactly at six? I just don’t want to be a pain…”

Chowder really… doesn’t seem to be stopping.

“Ugh, I always do this.” Chowder chuckled weakly, revealing a line of brace-filled teeth. “I feel like it always takes me longer to pick up the, you know, the rules, the, uh, norms and things? I should’ve just waited until everyone else kind of made a move for the meeting room, maybe?”

Was he done? Jack inhaled, ready to tell Chowder that he could stay.

“So uh,” Chowder’s eyes flitted quickly to the hallway and back as he shifted from side to side. “I should, just, uh, leave you alone. Right? Yeah. So sorry to bother you. Jack. Uh. Captain. Sir? No, Jack, you said Jack was fine. Right. Okay. See you soon.”

Chowder spun and sped back down the hallway, his brand new sneakers screeching the whole way. 

Jack took another sip of his Gatorade. Chowder would be more comfortable with the other rookies back in the locker room anyway. Jack wouldn’t be able to make conversation between just the two of them. 

It was ten past six when most of the team emerged from the hall, taking their usual places in the meeting room. The rookies across the front row, Ransom and Holster somehow taking up an entire bench in the back all by themselves, Johnson, feet kicked up, on the third bench on the left hand side, and Shitty–where was Shitty?

Two slightly damp arms wrapped around Jack’s shoulders from behind. “Jack! Buddy! You can’t keep drinking this thunder lightning shit! It’s most definitely 100% food coloring and marketing. Can’t trust it bro.”

There was Shitty.

“I don’t trust your tea,” Jack replied. 

“This,” Shitty announced, holding up his thermos proudly, “is some real, home-brewed, antioxidant-filled, ultra-hydrating, artisanal stuff right here. And it tastes like hibiscus, man, not some kind of made up, hyper masculine man-flavor.”

Jack shrugged. He’d been drinking this since he was fifteen. It did the job.

Whatever Shitty was about to say next was cut off by Coach entering the room. 

Coach cleared his throat, set down his clipboard, and launched into his post-practice rundown. 

Jack wouldn’t be proud to admit it, but he tended to zone out when Coach went into his rundown. He always paid close attention after actual games, of course, but most of what Coach said after pre-season practices was straightforward and obvious. 

Jack was in the middle of mentally picking out the ingredients for his smoothie when he got home– probably more kale this time, but keep the rest the same–when he was shaken out of his thoughts by the wave of consternation sweeping the room.

“Wait, what is this?”

“How’s dancing supposed to-“

“I think we’re doing fine as is-“

Coach waved his hands over the team like a conductor. “Men. I know it’s unorthodox. But if we’re going to be a cut above the rest, we can be a bit unorthodox. Besides,” he added, “it’s once a week for six weeks. I’m pretty sure you’ll be able to handle it.”

Jack strained his ears, trying to listen for a hint in the mutinous whispers as to exactly what they were supposed to be doing for the next six weeks.

“Sessions will take place during normal practice hours, and each one lasts about an hour,” Coach continued. “The teacher is really experienced, comes really highly recommended. You’ll be in good hands.” He brandished a stack of papers. “It takes place off-grounds, so you can get the address and learn a little more about it here.”

Coach handed the stack to Thompson, who obligingly began passing the papers around. “Otherwise, good hustle out there. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Beside Jack, Shitty sprang to his feet, grabbing his duffel out from under the bench. “Gotta run man, Lardo’s waiting. I think it sounds fun though. Cardiobarre is more in right now, honestly, but you take it where you can get it right? Bye man!”

Jack nodded at Shitty, keeping an eye on the papers being passed around the room. “See you later.”

Shitty left the room, followed soon after by a handful of other players, eager to go home. 

Finally, the stack of papers reached Jack. They were flyers. Emblazoned across the top read: ZUMBA!!!

Zumba?

What was Zumba?

XXXXX

“Zumba is a dance fitness regimen incorporating hip-hop, samba, salsa, merengue, and mambo. It’s a really popular form of aerobic exercise man,” Shitty said as he stretched out his hamstrings. 

Jack looked dubiously at the flyer, folded from a week’s worth of confused examination. “Is that what ‘get fit to the beat’ means?”

“Uh, yeah, guess so.” Shitty shrugged, then looked into the mirror that covered two walls from floor to ceiling to smooth his mustache. “It makes sense. It’s good exercise, and it’s going to get us out of our ‘comfort zones.’ You know Coach has been reading a lot of books about that kind of stuff.”

“Yes. That kind of stuff…” Jack agreed faintly. He hadn’t danced since his cousin Amanda’s wedding four years ago, and he doubted the safe, side-to-side shuffle he’d kept to back then would be acceptable in a class with a flyer brightly advertising “buns of steel in six weeks!” and “spicy salsa moves.”

“It’s not just ‘stuff,’ it’s comfort zones, bro!” Shitty responded. “When was the last time you did exercise that wasn’t hockey related? Or like, talked about something not hockey related? Or like, talked to someone who wasn’t hockey related? Comfort zones!”

Jack nodded halfheartedly. “Sounds. Ah. Good.”

Well. Jack was an athletic guy, and a determined one. He took a centering breath. Like Dr. Ruth said, anticipating is not participating. There’s no use in getting anxious before anything has even happened yet. All this is is a change in routine. Maybe this would even be fun. Coach said the teacher came highly recommended, after all. 

“Heelllooooo team!” hollered a voice from the back of the room. 

Jack turned, looking for the source of the voice, but he couldn’t see anyone past the row of hockey-broadened shoulders.

“Pardon me boys, just gotta get to the front. How ya’ll doing? I hope you found the place alright.” 

Now there was an accent you didn’t here very often in Providence, Rhode Island. It reminded Jack of honey.

In front of Jack, Kostanov and Porter shifted out of the way to let the voice through. 

The voice- person- man- boy?- man- wasn’t what Jack was expecting. He hadn’t realized it, but he had anticipated an instructor who looked pretty much like Coach. Older, a bit gruff, facial hair that had been groomed the same way since the eighties. 

This guy…did not look like Coach. He was short, coming up to Jack’s shoulder or so, and definitely younger than Jack too. Blonde. Shockingly so. Brown eyes, big and round and welcoming. Very muscled legs in very short workout shorts. 

“Pardon me!” chirped the guy, brushing past Jack to the speaker setup near the front of the room. 

“Sorry,” Jack mumbled belatedly as the guy plugged his phone into the speakers. 

The guy fiddled around on his phone for another minute, then a heavy beat started to fill the room. One of the guy’s hips started popping along to the music, and- well- zumba butts could give hockey butts a run for their money. 

Jack cleared his throat quietly and looked away, catching his own eyes in the massive mirror. He seemed pinker than he normally was. Well. It was warm in here.

“Okay!” The blonde guy clapped his hands once as he bounced towards the center of the room. “I’m Eric, you can call me Bitty! Just try to follow along, don’t worry about getting the moves right, as long as you keep it moving!”

And after that, Eric-Bitty-Eric just. Kept moving. 

Jack was not as good at moving. He would get the hang of one step -hips swaying side to side, following the thumping beat of the music- just in time for Eric to change the step, brightly sneakered feet speeding across the floor. 

Jack didn’t dare to look at himself in the full length mirror, he was sure that the sight of himself would be embarrassing enough to stop him from ever moving again. 

He kept his eyes on Eric instead, which was either a great decision or a terrible decision, depending on which part of Jack’s body was talking. 

Eric was clearly no stranger to dance. He moved like the beat was his own heartbeat, shaking and stomping to the music with energetic abandon. His surprisingly muscled legs carried him through every step with confidence, and his ass-hips-ass wiggled with feeling as he led the group through every cha-cha step, rhythmic jumping jack, and squat (oh god, Eric clearly did a lot of squats.)

The first song ended, and Jack was left panting, wondering if he’d gotten a single move right, and where men like Eric came from. 

(Jack needed to find that place.)

(No he didn’t. That was inappropriate. Eric was just doing his job. He wasn’t asking for Jack’s attention.)

“Great job boys!” Eric hollered in the few seconds before the next song started. “Really put your energy into it! Make like a hog in a broken pen on slaughtering day!” he added with some kind of ironic wasn’t-that-charming-and-southern smile.

Before Jack could fully process that figure of speech, a line of bass rumbled through the room, and Eric started shimmying vigorously towards the mirror, gesturing for the rest of the team to follow his lead. 

This move was simple enough, Jack thought with relief as he shook his shoulders from side to the side with the rest of the bemused team, before Eric unexpectedly stopped shimmying forward with his shoulders and started shimmying backwards with his hips.

Those were very short shorts. 

Jack swallowed and focused on Eric’s shoes. He was good at keeping focused through exercising, this didn’t have to be so distracting. 

“Okay boys, keep it moving!” shouted Eric as he snapped out of his shimmy and started walking around the room. “I’ve gotta make sure none of you in the back are slacking!” 

He winked. Oh god.

Eric rounded the room while the players continued to shimmy uncertainly forward and back. He made Kingsley unclench his fists, and Harmon straighten his back, then turned the corner and made his way back up to the front of the room. 

Jack stared at the floor. Eric was going to come up and correct him, he had to, Jack was doing horribly. 

Eric’s head popped into view. “Hey there! You’re doing great!”

“Oh, uh,” Jack stammered.

“But have fun with it!” Eric insisted, grin wide across his pink face. “We’re here to have fun!” He widened his grin encouragingly then started to-

Uh-

He started to dance with Jack? Was that the word? He started following Jack as he shimmied backwards, then backing up in turn as Jack moved forwards. He never stopped smiling the whole time. 

It looked as though he really meant it. 

“Hey! There’s my smile!” chirped Eric. “That’s the ticket!”

He spun and skipped back to his original position, then changed the move to a sort of hopping side step. There was clapping. Jack was terrible at it. 

The rest of the class went about the same, although mercifully (or maybe not?) Eric never did another walk around the room. 

“Wow! That’s what I’m talking about!” Shitty said after the hour was up, making a beeline for the water bottle he’d stashed in the corner of the room.

Jack took a pull from his water bottle. He’d filled it exactly one quarter full with ice that morning so that it would still be refreshingly cool after this class had ended. “Yes. It was very. Um. Energetic.”

“You got that right! Hey! Bitty! My man! That was a ton of fun!” Shitty hollered over at Eric, who was unhooking his music player from the speakers. 

Eric looked over his shoulder at Shitty, pink mouth quirking up in a smile. “I’m glad y’all liked it!” To Jack’s mixed horror and excitement, Eric started to walk over to them, wiping the fine sheen of sweat off of his face with a towel as he came. “You two were really shaking it!”

Shitty laughed. Shitty was one of those people who could laugh really easily, and it never sounded like he was trying to force it out or anything. “Coach had the right idea setting this up, I gotta say.”

“Oh that’s just lovely to hear,” Eric gushed. “I gotta say, I had no idea how well a class full of pro hockey players would work out, but y’all did great.”

“No,” blurted out Jack.

Eric and Shitty’s eyes turned to him. Of course they did, because he had spoken out loud, like an idiot.

“Ah, well. The team did great,” Jack hurried to add, cheeks feeling hot. “And you did good teaching. You’re great.” No, that sounds too intense. But it’s too late to backtrack, isn’t it? “What I mean is. I kept messing up.”

Eric smiles and waves a hand carelessly. “Oh, everybody stumbles a bit their first time around; you really-“

Jack can feel his heart pounding against his ribcage. This is so awkward. He should just leave so that Shitty and Eric can keep talking like normal people without needing to maneuver around him. 

“I need to go hydrate,” Jack said quickly, only realizing after he’d spoken that he’d cut Eric off in the middle of speaking. Oh no. “Sorry.” 

Clutching his nearly full water bottle in hand, Jack made a beeline for the studio’s exit, nearly knocking over an apologetic Chowder in his haste.

XXXXX

“No really, Jack, it’s gonna be great,” Shitty insisted, voice slightly tinny through the phone. “I’ve invited a ton of great people, set up two beer pong tables, I’ve even got my backyard rink all polished up if you get tired of the party and want to go freeze outside on the ice for a bit.”

“It messes up my routine if I have to go to bed later than ten,” Jack counters.

“I’ve got one of the guest rooms ready for you if you need it.”

“Your parties are loud.”

“Some rooms at the party will be loud. I’ve got designated quiet and loud spaces.”

“I don’t-“

“I’ve got plenty of virgin-drinks-that-look-alcoholic-so-nobody-bothers-you. C’mon Jack. Lardo and me have party-engineered this puppy to a T. I’ve invited a whole bunch of great people: the team, Jim and Ally from Boston, Toby the beer guy-“

“Okay,” Jack cuts Shitty off before he recites the entire guest list. “I’ll come by.”

“You’ll show up promptly at nine, buddy,” Shitty insists.

Jack glowers at his kale smoothie. “I’ll be there at nine.”

 

XXXXX

Shitty’s parties are the strangest mix of NHL-VIP glamor and college frat party trash that Jack has ever experienced. Adrenaline-fueled twenty-somethings ride garbage can lids down one of Shitty’s four staircases while partygoers pop open bottles of champagne that could cover the down payment on a cheap car. Guys in backwards baseball caps play beer pong while some lady with a lot of piercings (who Shitty’s friend from book club excitedly tells Jack hit the Billboard Top 100 last week) grabs a karaoke microphone. 

This is a long way of saying that Shitty’s parties are very tiring. But Jack tries to be a good friend, so he goes sometimes.

Jack took a sip of his sprite-in-a-cocktail-glass and leaned against the wall, watching a fifth consecutive game of beer pong pass by. He was pretty sure that the guy in the green baseball hat was an actual baseball player for the Red Sox, but he was hard to recognize out of uniform, and Jack supposed it would be rude to ask.

Red Sox Guy won. Jack clapped along with the rest of the observers, then looked around for the back door. It was getting warm and humid with people-heat. Jack carefully shouldered his way through the crowd and eased his way through the back door, being careful to let in as little of the cold air as possible. 

It was only early October, but New England rarely cared what the calendar had to say when it came to bringing in cold weather. Jack exhaled heavily, watching his breath rise up in a cloud. It had snowed very lightly that evening, so Jack wiped the dusting off of the deck railing before leaning against it. Shitty would have some kind of comment about Jack’s Canadian-ness if he found Jack resting out here in the cold, but Jack really didn’t think it was too bad. It was peaceful, standing here with the dull roar of the party muffled behind him, letting the sweat that comes from standing in a room full of people dissipate off from him into the crisp night air. There weren’t even any drunken partygoers trying to skate a few laps across Shitty’s backyard rink. 

Jack took another sip of sprite. It was lukewarm by now, but perhaps the air would help cool it off again. He didn’t want to have to fight his way back through the crowds surrounding the open bar. 

Thwack! 

Startled, Jack looked over his shoulder, where a figure was fretting over the screen door that had slammed loudly shut behind him. 

“Oh dear, I didn’t mean for it to make that much of a racket,” said the person. His features were hard to distinguish thanks to the darkness of the back patio and the light of the party behind him, but Jack didn’t hear very many southern accents in Providence. 

“Eric?” He asked hesitantly. 

“The same.” Eric raised a hand. “Are you- oh, the captain?” Eric asked, squinting at Jack as he walked closer. 

Jack nodded. Then, unsure whether Eric had seen him in the dim light, added, “yes.”

“Well it’s sure nice to see you!” Eric exclaimed. It was polite of him to say. Southerners were known for being polite, Jack was pretty sure. “I’ll say, it was very nice of Shitty to invite me to this shindig, but I sure don’t know many people.”

Shrugging, Jack said, “He likes to meet new people, so he has parties where lots of new people will meet each other. He invites a lot of people.” That was a lot of times to say “people” in one sentence.

“No kidding,” Eric murmurs, looking back at the party. “Well I hope you don’t mind if I take a breather out here with you.” 

“Oh,” said Jack, who had been casting around for a reason to excuse himself. “Well, uh-“

Eric grimaced, taking a slow step back towards the house. “No I get it, don’t worry about it, I won’t bother you.”

“No!” Oh that was too loud. “No,” Jack repeated more quietly, “I’m just not…good company. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Eric’s shoulders lowered from where they’d been inching up towards his ears. Jack felt terrible about that. “I don’t know about that. I like to be able to make my own judgements about people. To be honest with you,” he glanced around, then continued in a faux-whisper, “I’d sort of thought you didn’t like me very much.”

Jack shook his head quickly. “I- no, I just needed to…”

“To ‘hydrate’?” But Eric’s mouth was quirked up in a small smile. That was good. That was nice. 

Jack fiddled with his glass. “I…was embarrassed. I didn’t think I did a good job during the class.” And he’d felt bad about objectifying the instructor, but Jack knew better than to add that. 

Shaking his head, Eric walked a few steps forward to lean against the railing beside Jack. His cheeks were pink, either from drinks or the chill, Jack wasn’t sure. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I was missing every other step.”

Chuckling, Eric drank from his glass before responding. “Were you watching any of your teammates? Everybody was missing every other step. It’s what you do. You’re supposed to mess up.”

Jack frowned. “I don’t see what the point of that is.”

Eric tilted his head to one side. “I don’t see what the point of getting every step right is. It’s not like there’s a prize at the end. You do it for fun. Oh, and for the buns of steel.” Eric grinned and wiggled suggestively. 

Swallowing, Jack tore his eyes away and cast his gaze over the darkened features of the yard. “Maybe I… like to know that I’m doing it right. That I’m getting the results I should get.”

Eric giggled again. It occurred to Jack that Eric might be tipsy. He looked happy though. Settled in himself. “That’s such a hockey player thing to say.”

Something about the way he said “hockey player thing”–– it was in the same kind of tone that somebody might say “ancient aliens theory” or “grapefruit diet.” It made Jack’s hackles rise.

“What’s wrong with it being a hockey player thing?” Jack asked, as neutrally as possible.

“Mmm” Eric sank further against the railing, letting it take his weight. He was probably quite light. Jack could probably lift him. “I get it. I used to do a lot of really competitive skating. And a bit of hockey for a season here and there, but mostly skating. It’s all really…” Eric shook his head, “really exacting. Like every…” Eric wiggled his hand like a snake. “Every deviation from what you’re supposed to do is life or death. And that’s just exhausting.”

“It’s what gets you good at it.” A split second hesitation could make a difference of a goal on the ice. Of course it was important to get it right.

Eric shrugged. “Pardon me for being dramatic, but at what cost?” He shook a fist at the sky, smiling lopsidedly. “It wasn’t for me, that’s all.”

“You don’t skate anymore?” Jack can picture it, Eric swirling around on the ice, leaping into the air with the same grin he’d had while dancing, face pink with exertion and delight. 

“Haven’t in a while. Lemme tell you though, I’ve been eyeing that rink something terrible.” Eric nodded at Shitty’s rink. “If somebody had warned me, I would have brought my skates.” 

Well that was something Jack could solve easily. “Shitty has skates!”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “I truly don’t think we’re the same size.”

“He has-“ Jack gestured to the row of large bins tucked alongside the house. “Guest ice skates. Two in every size.”

Still looking skeptical, Eric approached the bins. “I’d say that’s ridiculous, but that does seem like something he’d do.”

“He likes for everyone to have fun. He also says that it’s a legal liability to have guests on ice on his property, but he also says ‘tort law is whiny bullshit,’ so he keeps the skates out anyway.” Jack was babbling, but Eric was smiling as he sorted through the bins, combing through the sets of skates, and Jack wanted to be a part of it. 

Yanking a pair of tiny skates out of the last bin, Eric started tugging at his shoelaces. “Aren’t you gonna grab a pair?”

“Oh, I-“ Jack hesitated. 

Eric rolled his eyes. “Do I have to insist I don’t hate your company again? Because I’m going to start thinking that you’re just fishing for compliments.”

There wasn’t much use in arguing with that, and Jack didn’t really want to anyway. He started searching for a pair in his size.

They didn’t fit as comfortably as his normal skates, but his normal skates were custom fitted, so it was a bit of an unfair comparison. He was sure they’d hold up on the ice, and, he thought, toddling after Eric, he had a feeling that they wasn’t going to be playing a game of hockey.

“Ahh,” Eric sighed as he made his first glide across the ice. “That’s the stuff.” He wasn’t doing anything fancy, but Jack could see the ex-figure skater in his movements, the way he effortlessly switched directions, the graceful arc of his body as his path followed gentle curves. “You know, I still associate ice skating with the summer,” he mused.

“Why’s that?” Jack asked as he stepped out onto the ice. It didn’t have a Zamboni run across it every two hours, but Shitty kept it pretty smooth.

“Well, you might have noticed I’m from the south,” Eric whizzed by close enough that Jack could see his self deprecating grin. “And we don’t get winters like here of course, but oh lord do we get summers, so going to the indoor ice rink is a good way to cool off. I remember the first time I stepped into a rink, I must have been just tiny, I thought I’d walked right off of Maple Street and into heaven.”

“I don’t remember the first time I got out onto the ice,” Jack finds himself saying. 

Eric raises a leg out behind him experimentally. “You’re some kind of hockey legacy aren’t you?”

Jack clears his throat. “Yes.” He braces himself, but Eric doesn’t go through the usual list of Bad Bob questions, just nods, and loops the rink quietly. Jack follows suit, letting the soft swish of their skates fill the air for a few minutes. It’s one of his favorite sounds. 

Some time passes. Not long, probably, since the party is still raging behind them, but enough time for Jack to fall into the steady rhythm of the ice and his breathing. 

“Okay, I think I’m about warmed up,” Eric says lowly, almost to himself. “Let’s see if I’ve still got it, hmm?” He flashes a quick, startling smile at Jack before propelling himself across the ice, speeding up until he gains enough momentum to rise into the air into a great spinning leap. 

Eric wasn’t a large man, but in the space of breath that he was in the air, he seemed vast, every limb outstretched and strong, guiding his journey into the air and back down again. 

Then he landed, huffing out a breath and gliding back around in a circle to face Jack. “I didn’t think that was too bad! That one’s a great trick, because it looks really flashy but it’s actually pretty hard to mess it up.”

“You know more, don’t you?” Jack hoped he doesn’t sound too much like a child asking Santa for more presents.

“Sure, but I don’t think I can still pull off my triple axel,” Eric demurred. 

“That trick did look very good though, Eric,” Jack insisted.

Eric made a strange kind of scoffing noise. “Call me Bitty, everybody calls me Bitty.”

Jack pursed his lips, unsure. “I don’t like to call people by their nicknames unless I know them well. I don’t want to be overly familiar.”

Waving a hand, Eric said, “You don’t have to worry about that. I like Bitty. Besides, aren’t hockey teams all about nicknames? ‘Bitty’ actually came from one of my hockey teams once upon a time.”

“That’s different, it’s important for team morale.” That’s what the leadership book Jack had read claimed, anyway. “Some of the guys I don’t even know their real first name. Unless some terrible parent actually named their son ‘Chowder.’”

“Not the first name I’d pick, no,” Eric-Bitty allowed. “Wait I think I might have met him. Did he have the…” Eric-Bitty gestured at his teeth.

Jack nodded. “He said, ‘better late than never.’ He’s very cheerful.” That’s secondhand knowledge. He isn’t cheerful towards Jack very often. “But nervous sometimes. I think I might make him nervous.” Jack admitted.

“That’s ridiculous, Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty responded. Very polite of him to say. “I can’t imagine you would try and make some little rookie nervous.”

Bitty kicked off into one of those spins Jack had seen ice skaters do, where they whirl around and around on one spot like a top. Bitty ends the spin smoothly, doesn’t even look dizzy. 

“I don’t- I don’t try to make him nervous,” Jack points out. “I’m just not good at being…uh…” he waves a hand through the air. “Like you.”

Bitty tilts his head to the side. “How’s that?”

Jack digs the tip of his skate into the ice. It’s a bad habit. Scuffs the ice up. “Encouraging? Like when- during the class, when you told me to smile.”

From the other side of the rink, Bitty lets out a rueful laugh. “Oh jeez.”

“Oh jeez?”

“Well uh,” Bitty doesn’t look at Jack, just pushes very casually off into another lap of the rink. “Don’t take this the wrong way now, I really was trying to be encouraging- I think it’s really important that people have fun at class! But uh, when I see a handsome gentleman like yourself, I’ve got a bit of a…” Bitty shrugs. “Flirting instinct.”

Jack very nearly trips on the ice. That hasn’t happened in a long time. “What?”

Shrugging, Bitty looks back at the house. “I would never, oh, try to really hit on you or anything, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Jack says quickly. Well, he’s always a little uncomfortable, but not with Bitty- flirting with him? That’s what he was doing? “I thought you came up to me because I was doing it wrong.”

“You weren’t doing anything wrong!” Bitty laughs. “You were just trying too hard to do everything right, you know what I mean?”

“Like-“ Jack wiggles his hand through the air with the snake-like motion Bitty had used earlier. “What you were saying before.”

Bitty nods. His loop around the rink has slowed, he’s just drifting up to Jack now. “I wanted you to have fun.”

But that wasn’t all, was it? Jack can’t quite let this go. “And also to…flirt with me?”

Bitty’s pink, pink mouth twitches. “That as well.”

It sparks an odd feeling in Jack, like how he felt walking from the hot crush of the party out into the cool stillness of the snow-dusted deck. As though he’s just stepped into a new, welcoming place, a place he wants to be. “So…” Jack starts. He can be smooth, can’t he? Charming? “How can I flirt back?”

That pink, pink mouth stretches into a wider smile. Bitty’s brown eyes skid across the ice. “You’ve seen figure skating lifts, haven’t you Mr. Zimmermann?” Bitty taps at his chin. “Those are pretty flirtatious…” his voice trails up at the end. It’s a question. Jack can say no.

Jack has seen those lifts, here and there. They’re elegant, graceful moves that look effortless, natural, comfortable. The skaters he’s seen in glimpses during the Winter Olympics practice for years to get each move right, every angle exact, every muscle honed to perfection.

There’s no way that Jack will get it right on the first try. 

Bitty’s eyes bore into his. His fingers are already tapping in excitement against his thigh. 

_We’re here to have fun._

He offers Bitty his hand. 

“Let’s give it a shot.”

 


End file.
